Misconceptions
by Cardir
Summary: He then grasped a brass handle in each hand and pulled.  The heavy wooden doors creaked open slowly.  Lestrade entered the room cautiously, and then emitted a strangled scream that set my bone marrow afire.  SHJW slash, summary inside.  INDEFINITE HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Misconceptions

**Main Pairing: **Holmes/Watson

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **Traumatic events, vivid descriptions, mild violence, suggestive dialog, slash

**Disclaimer: **I do not own characters, settings, or ideas conceived by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and associates. This was written for pleasure, not for profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary: **Dr. John Watson is reunited with his old companion, Sherlock Holmes, to solve a case "for old time's sake". When the mystery becomes personal, and when things are at stake, Watson must decide what is really important to him. While wading through deceit, danger, and the sense of time running out, Watson and Homles begin to discover misconceptions about the world... and each other. SHJW slash.

**Beta:** ThePersonOverThere

**Author's Note: **My first attempt at a Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, or any, for that matter. I'd really appreciate any and all feedback you have to offer. Enjoy!

* * *

It was by mere chance that I stumbled across my former companion Sherlock Holmes. I was out on my daily stroll through London, trying to experience the beauty of spring in England, and escape the hectic cleaning that had enveloped my house. He and I hadn't really crossed paths since I was wed to the fair Mary Morstan, and now as I found my feet meandering down the path that led to Baker Street, I contemplated how much could have changed in the few months of my absence. The thought crossed my mind how Holmes would have fared without me. Feeling particularly egotistical as I wandered past buildings that had once been so familiar to me, I tried to imagine the hawk-like eyes widened with surprise and his mouth forming the endearing O as he took in my image. No doubt I would appear much healthier to him than I had in the last days before moving out of 221B. There are copious amounts of youth one may gain back given time to relax.

I must admit, in full honesty, that I was slightly irritated with my old friend. Although I was quite aware of his not-so-rational perspective of love and other emotions of the same status, I couldn't help but let myself succumb to the bitter disappointment that he would not be my best man. He had scolded me for believing in such a thing as "true love" and made it impossibly clear that he did not feel such emotions. After I countered back, much to my horror later, how much time I spent trying to solve his cases with him, he just leaned back into his chair with a groan.

Fearing I had unjustly accused him, I scrambled to make amends, but he merely raised his hands in attempt to stop the flow of words that could have unhinged my jaw. "You are correct, as always, Watson." he had said, "I undervalue you. Let us not argue any longer, my dear friend, but continue on in the curious way that we humans live our lives."

Now the hair under my hat itched with a sudden ferocity as I called upon Holmes. I wasn't exactly sure what was propelling this long put-off meeting, but my stomach flopped uneasily as Mrs. Hudson led me into the downstairs parlor and bid me set down while she called up on Holmes. The building appeared just as nondescript has it had to me before; braided coasters resting on the wooden tables, paintings fighting for space on the cramped walls, and the narrow staircase near the corner of the room that led up to the other floors. I could see the kitchen that rested on the other side of the stairs where I'd often eat my meals when Holmes had not yet returned to the flat.

I sat with my right leg crossed over my left, drumming my fingertips dully on the tabletop. How very much like Holmes it would be to be out on a Saturday morning. If so, he was, no doubt, risking his life to discover some scandal that had been covered up. Had the thought occurred to me while I was taking the walk over to 221B Baker Street, I might have turned back. But the prospect of seeing the man again, the extraordinary, brilliant man, was too great.

Listening to Mrs. Hudson's steps creak across the floor above, I happened to hear a small sound emit from somewhere outside the window. The steps had ceased above, no doubt conveying the message of my arrival or taking a once-over to see if the occupant was home before returning downstairs, so I found myself naturally wandering towards the window. A billowing birch leaned against the brick building, the white bark slightly peeling. At first my mind didn't comprehend what it saw. There was a large pile of dirt resting at the base of the tree, like someone had started digging a grave and then abandoned it, and next to it was a rat. No - it couldn't have been a rat, although the dun-colored coat suggested it. It was a cat, a stray one no doubt, with its ribs practically poking through its flesh and its waste cinched down as if a string was tied around its midsection. It stared reproachfully back up at me with eyes the color of copper pipes before flicking its stubby tail in my direction, raising its front feet against the birth like it was stretching, and begin to climb.

"Dear Lord, what is that?" Mrs. Hudson questioned as she returned, leaning heavily on the banister. She nodded at my inquisitive glance but returned her attention to the window, where the cat was making its progress up. "A squirrel?"

"It is in fact a feline, Mrs. Hudson. And if you excuse me, I'll make my way up to Holmes' rooms now." I mumbled, skirting around the elderly woman and up the stairs. "It was lovely to see you again."

Entering into Holmes' flat, I wasn't especially sure what to expect. I would have liked to think that the man would have suffered a bit in my absence, lacking much mental stimulation, but I didn't fancy seeing our-his, lodgings in total destruction, either. Very slowly I raised my fist to the thick door, before reconsidering and opening it without knocking.

The first thing that I noticed was that the long wooden cane (that could usually be found with Holmes) was lying parallel to the large chair my friend fancied. The fairly bitter smoke from a pipe lay in the air like the clouds lay thick and complete over the London sky. The stacks of manuscript and legal documents had grown tenfold since I had last been in the room, almost every flat surface home to some sort of parchment.

"Watson! I had feared that more than my average 7% had permeated my skin when dear Mrs. Hudson made her call." a voice exclaimed, followed by footsteps. Holmes appeared, rubbing his hands with a towel. It struck me once again how elegantly he moved - so much like a cat that I couldn't help but recall the creature on the birch.

"It's good to see you Holmes. I daresay it's been far too long." I greeted him, extending my hand. He strutted past me, not giving a glance at my palm, and retrieved a folded-up newspaper from next to his chair.

"I am in complete agreement. With 221B to myself, I've found that I've acquired far too much stuff, my friend. I'm displacing objects faster than a criminal considers revenge on someone who wronged him. Read this," he commanded, thrusting the small print into my arms. "I thought you might be interested. For old time's sake,"

The article (circled in pen) advertised a mystery that was "in a very great need to be solved." After quickly scanning the column, my eyes found his, studying my features with muted concentration.

"So, what do you say, Watson?" he asked, balling the towel up with his long fingers.

"I-Holmes, do you hear that?" I began; peering around the room like an elephant had just run in front of me.

"I do believe that sound was a feline, most likely from outside my window." Holmes answered, peering curiously down his long nose at me.

I plodded to the window, careful to avoid the stack of papers at the foot of the footstool, and lifted the glass panes. Before I realized what was happening, a gray creature leapt lightly to the sill. My gaze was transfixed by reddish brown eyes before it bent its head and rubbed its face against my hand.

"Oh! Holmes, I think it likes me. Would you like to-?"

"I've never seen a cat act like this. I prefer dogs, actually. But, if you insist…" Holmes muttered lifting the cat by its midsection and studying its features before resting its body against his broad shoulder.

"Stray. The fur is mangled and congealed with dirt, suggesting that it hasn't been sheltered from the wetter side of London. Female; the tail was probably lost from being caught in something. You can see the scabs here." Holmes rattled on, making all sorts of conjectures about the creature.

After listening to some of Holmes' more exciting stories and describing life with Mary, I stood up stiffly, stretched, and headed for the door. He remained seated, scratching the cat under its chin.

"Watson, I believe you avoided my question. Would you care to accompany myself to visit this person? I must admit, the article wasn't informative. But it mentioned that Scotland Yard had failed to solve this mystery, so I must admit that piqued my interest. I can meet you outside the house in exactly a fortnight, if you so choose."

"Holmes, you really are an amazing man. I shall see you next fortnight," I tipped my hat and closed the door softly, the image of Holmes flushed with pride imprinted in my mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Oh! I had no idea how long it would take to get this second chapter out! Please refrain from taking a knife to my scalp. A HUGE thank you to my beta, ThePersonOverThere, for putting up with my constant squabbling about beta-ing the chapter every hour or so.**

**Disclaimer (for all chapters to come as well): I do not own.**

That evening, after the dishes had been had been scrubbed, my hat hung up, and my pipe lit, I sat with Mary in our modest living room. While she knitted vigorously, I smoked contentedly and scanned through the daily papers. Although my medical work kept me quite occupied through the days, it relieved me to read the daily papers and feel like I was connected to the world. There was a large picture of something, claimed to be a house fire, that looked rather like someone had spilled ink on paper, and I found my attention floating from the page in front of me.

"I called on Holmes today," I said.

My eyes continued glazing on the print as I uttered the sentence. The clicking of the needles stopped, but I didn't dare look up. It had been Holmes who had united Mary and I, though she had begun to question my relationship with her, for I was slow to pack my belongings and leave 221B. She sucked in a low sigh and I glanced up.

"And how is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, John?" she asked, setting the careful maroon stitches on her lap. Her forehead puckered into an adorable crease and I could almost see her mind whirling behind her eyes. It struck me then just how strikingly gorgeous Mary was, with her blonde hair pinned up in a proper bun on the back of her head, with only a few curls brushing her cheeks. How could such a lovely creature have chosen to spend the rest of her life with me?

"Fine, fine, the old chap is getting along," I muttered, inhaling thoughtfully on my pipe. "We did have the most intriguing conversations. He's still as reckless as ever."

A brisk nod was all that I received as a reply. We sat for a few moments, her needles clicking monotonously together again, me creating rings from the end of my pipe. The dinner had been simple that night, shepherd's pie with an aged brandy, and I felt my stomach gurgle. I could still taste the alcohol on my tongue, though it was diluted with smoke from my pipe.

"He invited me to join him at noon tomorrow. I would extend the invitation to you as well, my dear, but…" I began, spinning one of the buttons on my jacket between my thumb and forefinger, but before I could continue, she cut in.

"John, please don't tell me that you're thinking of going on another one of your adventures." When I didn't respond, she continued on sharply. "Honestly! You're not as young as you used to be, neither of you, and walking into danger like two ignorant colts…"

"Mary, please, we'll be fine. Just something for the fun of it-"

"… just leave it to the police," she finished in a rush, throwing her knitting severely onto her lap. "If they can't solve it, then what makes you think that you and Mr. Holmes will?

"Oh, that was cruel. John, please, I'm sorry…" she started, but I shook my head briskly to dismiss her. "I don't doubt that you could solve, but I don't want either of you to get hurt," Mary murmured, eyes wide with distress.

"Shh, Mary, I know. I approached the topic in an enigmatic way, and I apologize. But I have already made arrangements with Holmes. All I plan on doing is accompanying him to meet the author of the article. No-" I held up the hand that wasn't supporting my pipe. "I do not plan on aiding with the whole case."

I stood up, crossed the room, and wrapped my arms around her waist. It occurred to me how tiny she was in my embrace, swaying slowly with me. I turned her face towards mine and kissed her gently, trying to channel reassurance and comfort to her. We stood there for an immeasurable moment, her head leaning against my chest, just above my heart. At last, she raised her head up to turn and look up at me, and the moment dissipated.

"Please be careful, John. I was thinking about the future, about us, and…" she folded her arms over her stomach. "Well, just be as careful as you possibly can. And know that I'll be waiting when you arrive home."

"Of course. But it does bother me a bit that you don't trust me. I have been on many adventures with Holmes, and none of them have proven fatal."

"I know, but I just want you to be as careful as you possibly can," she murmured as her hand found mine. "But let us retire now. I shan't allow you to laugh in the face of death tomorrow without a fair many hours of sleep under your belt."

I nodded and allowed myself to be led back to our chamber, but I couldn't banish the thought that she hadn't actually contradicted my statement and said that she did trust me from my mind.

The next morning, when my shadow hardly extended beyond my feet and the clock struck noon, I stepped out of the hansom cab at the front door of 221B. I was greeted by a man in his late fifties with a stoop in his back and a stutter in his step. He was clad in a red and black tweed jacket with gray slacks and work boots. A large pair of lightly tinted glasses obstructed my view of his eyes and a hat was pulled down low over his forehead, but I surmise his eyes positively gleamed as they caught on my approaching figure.

"Holmes, I daresay this is your best disguise to date," I remarked after discovering my friend in the disguise and hailing a hansom and began our journey. "I can honestly admit that I had no idea why an elderly man should have been interrogating me so fiercely, but that you didn't quite come to mind as I searched for answers."

"Always be on guard, Doctor. For if I had actually been someone seeking information about you, I could have concluded much from the way you dressed, held yourself, and walked, even before you opened your mouth. Be sure to be as generic and unimpressionable as possible."

I nodded, trying to commit his statement to memory. "What conclusions did you draw from me, in a non-objective view?"

"You slept with a woman, most likely your wife, last night, had a disagreement with her this morning, changed your shirt twice before donning the original one, had a pipe a few minutes before you left, and took a rather roundabout path to my door," Holmes listed.

"You have everything correct down to the shirts. How did you know?" I asked, in a rather rhetorical tone, but Holmes replied nonetheless.

"Basic skills of observation, Watson. You exuded a faint scent of perfume from your body when you were near me. It would only have stuck with you if your body had been in close proximity to a woman's for quite a while. There was a stronger smell of a slightly different perfume on you, though similar to the first, suggesting that she shoved you in the chest. There are small strings of fabric on the tail of your shirt, two different colors, meaning you were wearing something else. As for how I knew you changed your shirt? I'd imagine that you were exhausted of tucking in your shirt, hence the strains near your belt. I can even name the pipe you were smoking… but not now. The small flecks of dirt on the seams and cuffs of your slacks are from different parts of London," he finished, folding his hat in his hands.

Since I was unable to think of a reply to Holmes, we spent most of the rest of the ride in silence. Only the occasional bump as one of the wheels slipped into a rut shook me from my thoughts. As the cab began to slow and Holmes replaced the hat and sunglasses on his head, my pulse began to speed.

"Remember, please don't step in any mud, Doctor. Or track anything in the house, if you can help it," Holmes muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he leapt heavily out of the carriage. Before he hit the ground, he was an old man again, breath wheezing heavily out of his mouth.

"I say, Holmes, I don't think that anyone is home." The blinds were drawn in each window and the chimney was void of smoke, despite it being a crisp morning.

Just as I made the observation, the front door opened, and several people filed out onto the front steps. I recognized Lestrade immediately, along with a few other men in uniform. With them was a woman, at least a head taller than myself, whose face was tinged as green as the ivy that spiraled up the side of the house. Her mouth opened and shut very quickly, athough her facial expressions remained set in a faintly seasick manner.

"Ah, Mr. Watson, is it? Excuse me Ms. Lawson, but I think…" Lestrade mumbled anxiously, and turned away from the woman to greet us. "But where is Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Is that… My, Holmes, is that you?"

Lestrade fidgeted with his bowler for a moment, his brows drawn together, before glancing back over his shoulder at the woman called Ms. Lawson. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. And Mr. Watson, his partner. Yes, well um, this is Ms. Lawson, a tenant who lives here."

The woman made a sort of clumsy curtsy in the general direction of Holmes and myself though made no move to initiate conversation. We were invited inside, but Holmes protested.

"If I may be permitted, I think I shall remain outside for a moment longer. I am quite a fan of your petunias. But gentlemen, if I may ask a question: Did you take a hansom here this morning?"

"Yes, though I don't see how that is relevant to the case," Lestrade answered.

"Merely curious," Holmes replied vaguely.

I reluctantly left Holmes at the walk and plodded into the house. Our group was invited into the parlor. A tray of tea was set on the center table, though it remained untouched. After several minutes of pointless small talk, Holmes sauntered into the room and sat in the chair next to Lestrade.

"Ms. Lawson, if you wouldn't mind, could you relate the story to my two friends, without leaving anything out? Yes," he answered the questioning tilt of her head. "don't skip over that part. I think it to your advantage to include everything you can remember." Lestrade prompted eagerly.

After straightening her skirts and readjusting her weight on the chair, Ms. Lawson opened her mouth. I must say, I expected a lower voice to emit from her mouth, but when she spoke, the shrill ringing of a soprano echoed around the vaulted ceiling.

"I'm a tenant of this house, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ritter. They were Germans, only lived in London a few months before renting part of the house out. I live in the basement, and I didn't usually encounter them, since there's an exit down there. They would often invite German friends of theirs to the house and hold extravagant parties. I happen to have had the pleasure of attending a few.

"They were young, no kids yet. I think they were trying, but there was something wrong with her or something," Ms. Lawson paused, regaining her train of thought, and continued. Well, Mr. Ritter was a successful businessman. I'm not quite sure what he did, but they were fairly well off. He also had a bit of a reputation to be, um…"

"Unfaithful," Lestrade supplied, rolling his eyes. "Yes, please continue."

Ms. Lawson's cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She attempted to clear her throat several times, but each time was unable to pick up where she left off.

"Ms. Lawson, please continue with your story," Holmes smiled reassuringly, folding his hands in his lap. His lips were tensed at the corners and his brows had all but disappeared under his hat.

"Well, Mrs. Ritter got it in her head that Mr. Ritter and I, well, that we, you know, were having an affair. She came down to the basement a few nights ago and confronted me about it. I-I told her everything and she just left. They had had a party that night, but Mr. Ritter had retired early due to some head congestion. The next evening, I went up to deliver the month's rent and, well, I found him."

I studied the countenance of her face, which had remained still throughout the account, despite the flushes of color. But when she finished, her eyebrows had been drawn together and her chin jutted out in trepidation.

"What about Mr. Ritter did you and his wife discuss? You didn't specify," Lestrade questioned impatiently. "Were you, in fact, having an affair with the wealthy German?"

"No-no. I was merely… returning from a long day at the market -- I sell knitted goods there see -- and I happened upon Mr. Ritter."

We discussed the finer points of Ms. Lawson's evening, from how she had brought a few groceries home with her, entered the house through the downstairs level door, and never ventured upstairs since there was a party.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Lawson. If we may proceed upstairs now, for I believe Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson would like to see things for themselves, we shall let you go back to your day. We can let ourselves out, thank you."

As we trekked upstairs to the Ritters' chamber, I attempted to prepare myself for the sight of a (rather theatrical) grossly mangled corpse. Being adept to working with the sick and dying, I was able to handle death, but there was something about murder that tickled my uneasy side. We paused outside of the double doors which led into their chamber, and Lestrade motioned for us to refrain from opening the doors.

"What do you fancy, Holmes?" Lestrade nodded his head in such a way that I assumed him to be referring to Ms. Lawson.

"I am not leaping to conclusions before all of the facts are in place," Holmes replied coolly, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down his long nose at Lestrade. "Seeing as that would entirely be a waste of time." Lestrade flushed down to the roots of his salt-and-pepper hair and briskly nodded once.

"Well, you'll soon have all the facts, Holmes. But before I reveal the body to you, I have a condition for you to follow." Lestrade fidgeted with his bowler a bit before continuing. "You very well know that it has been publically announced that Scotland Yard has come up short on this case. And it would be imprudent for someone unprofessional to solve it."

"Yes, I suppose it would be seen in a rather poor light," Holmes agreed softly.

"Holmes, we would be ever grateful to you if you could lend us a hand, or at least get us on the right track again. But to whom the credit goes, well, I think you know where I'm going with this," Lestrade concluded.

"I solve mysteries for the truth, Lestrade, not for the claim to fame. You shall have credit where credit is due." Holmes continued after observing the look of alarm on Lestrade's blanched features. "Do not worry about your reputation. It is not my intention to remove you from your acclaimed position."

"Very well, Holmes, then we are in agreement."

"I just have one more question." Holmes's features were solemn. "Who published the article in the paper?"

"Why, I believe it was Mrs. Ritter." Lestrade answered thoughtfully.

He then grasped a brass handle in each hand and pulled. The heavy wooden doors creaked open slowly. Lestrade entered the room cautiously but emitted a strangled scream that set my bone marrow afire.

**A/N: Ah yes, a cliffhanger. The next chapter will be out in a MUCH more timely fashion, I promise!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hopefully this update is fast enough for all of you amazing readers. A huge thank you, once again, to my fantastic beta, ThePersonOverThere, for making this one of her top priorities. You officially rock (you've been going unofficial for awhile, I'm afraid to say).**

The first impulse that seized my senses was to duck and back away from the door. As it happened, Holmes was standing directly behind me. Before a civil thought crossed my mind, I found my lower back ramming into Holmes' stomach and my heel almost stamping on his foot. A sharp intake of breath echoed near my ear as I staggered and the faint smell of tobacco and something like cinnamon tickled my nostrils. My hands desperately grabbed at his forearms in hope of remaining upright. I felt them tense and his hands curled into fists his arms he supported my weight with them as my feet flailed to find the floor. After a moment I managed to lean forward and find solid footing. My balance struggled to return as I straightened my spine and watched the floor spinning before my eyes.

"Oh! What is it, Lestrade?" Holmes demanded breathlessly. He stared anxiously at the man from Scotland Yard.

"My, Holmes, I'm very sorry. I didn't expect-"

"Be quiet, Doctor, and let him speak," He straightened his suit coat with impatience and, with a few long strides, made it over to the entrance of the suite. It may have been my imagination, but when he passed me, aloofness practically oozed from him.

"Her, them, over there," Lestrade leaned against the side of the door with sick eyes tracing wooden panels in the floor. "It caught me off guard I guess. Oh…"

I kneaded the corner of my hat in anxiety as I crept past Lestrade and into the room. A smell assaulted my nose; it permeated the air in some kind of sweet heavy odor, entangling my thoughts. I had often come face-to-face with it, though that didn't prepare me for its sudden onslaught. My throat constricted and I gagged as I passed the sanded mahogany dressers and king-sized four-poster bed. Holmes stood in the arch of the doorway that led to what I made out to be the sitting room, his striking profile contrasting to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.

The body of a woman lay stretched in a pose that I could only describe as prostitution; dirty blonde hair undone, laying on her side, one leg wrapped around the corpse next to her and her elbow locked around its neck. All of the garments of her and the other corpse lay at the foot of the bed. The thing underneath her was much harder to discern. His extremities were curled into his trunk, and his face was turned towards the ceiling. His features were, unlike her gray ones, already beginning to rot.

A small pool of blood surrounded the two of them. I fancied it came from the crude knife that lay discarded next to the clothes.

"So, this is what has become of Mrs. Ritter," Holmes finally spoke.

"That's not possible…" Lestrade shuffled behind me, his voice creating a ripple down my back. "But I don't understand. I was conversing with Mrs. Ritter only a day or two ago. She must have been murdered between then and now.

"Gentlemen, I shall be right back. Men," he motioned to the men in uniform, "Come with me. It's time we interrogate Ms. Lawson about this twist."

Lestrade and the others departed from the room. I listened until their raucous steps had faded from the stairs before attempting to speak. Holmes was squatted over next to the bodies now. A crease had formed between his eyebrows and his mouth was drawn into a thin line.

"Dear Lord, I hadn't expected this," I muttered.

My voice seemed to snap him out of some sort of reverie. He visibly flinched before impeccable composure overtook his features. Holmes straightened his back, and stood up. "I thought you were with the others, Watson," That was it. No explanation for his abruptness.

"No, I came here on your request and figured I should remain with you." Silence for a moment.

"I suppose I've just grown used to the mighty loneliness one is engulfed in when working alone."

"I suppose so. Shall I wait outside, then?" My feet had already carried me to the door into the hall when his voice floated hesitantly towards me. "No, I'd prefer you stay here."

"Well, Holmes, what shall I do, then?" I moved back towards the dresser. "I'm not exactly aiding you by observing, am I?"

"That's precisely what I need you to do."

"I… Pardon?"

"Watson, do you know why I examined the petunias when we first got here?" Holmes reemerged from the sitting area section of the suite.

"No, I was going to ask about that later. You might have some sort of petunia obsession and I thought it not the time."

Holmes frowned. "Not quite. You are aware that it rained recently, are you not? Well, the flowerbeds are quite soft right now, especially with the bulbs shooting up."

"So you're saying that-"

"And you may or may not have noticed that there are beds under this window. Now, what conclusions can you draw from the tiny specks of blood leading towards the window and then suddenly dropping off, as if…"

"Specks of blood?"

"Yes, over here. Come closer, Watson." Holmes' arm beckoned me towards the corpses. I shuffled over to where Holmes was, though I was careful to avoid the people on the floor. "Do you see them?"

Sure enough, small dots of rusty crimson, no bigger than a snowflake, were sprinkled in a path towards the window. A few splotches were larger as if actual droplets of blood had fallen, ground deeply into the grainy floor.

"And you noticed them while examining the corpses?" I asked, incredulity dripping from my voice.

"As if anyone couldn't," he replied harshly. "I mean, honestly, how hard is it to inference that the murderer didn't just prance down the stairs with blood on his or her hands, walk through the party, and out the front door?"

I stifled a scowl. "Very well. What other conclusions have you reached?"

"This was not suicide. There are no skid marks around the knife," Holmes handled the weapon carefully, motioning to the perfect spread of blood where it had been laying. "Which means that Mrs. Ritter could have killed her husband, but she did not kill herself. There is no way that the knife could have been thrown over here from her location without skidding. And she can hardly get up after stabbing herself to plant it over there."

"Could it be Ms. Lawson who murdered the pair of them, then?" My stomach shriveled at the idea. She had seemed so innocent and keenly horrified when we had spoken to her. I couldn't imagine the woman stabbing her landlords. But, when in a special frenzy, I suppose anyone is capable of murder.

"No, oh for heaven's sakes, use your brain!" Holmes made to hit me lightly on the shoulder, but seemed to think better of it, and let his hand hang suspended in mid-air. "By measuring the length between the splotches of blood, which we can assume to be footprints, we can find the exact height of our killer. Now, Ms. Lawson is a very tall woman. Her strides would be far too long to match these prints."

"Not everyone can be a genius like you," I muttered grumpily. Holmes blushed and a small smile tugged on the corners of his lips.

"I'm only observant."

"You haven't changed a bit." I couldn't help but smile a bit as his face fell into a state of befuddlement.

"Have you not noticed the significant streaks of premature gray that have somehow stolen into the rich coat of hair that I possess?" he questioned seriously and motioned frantically towards his head. Small silver hairs were embedded in the brown ones but they were hardly noticeable.

"That's from risking your life every few moments, that is," I snorted. "And I suppose you've proven me wrong. You didn't ever attempt amusing antics with me."

"What antics?" A small pucker formed in his forehead.

"Oh, never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Unless it is relevant to the case, now is not the moment it I will try to decipher you, Watson." Holmes shrugged and squatted, grunting slightly. I backed away to allow him an unobstructed view of the Ritters, maneuvering back to my vantage point by the dressers.

I spent the next few minutes in silence, curiously listening as Holmes muttered incoherent phrases to himself while he examined first the corpses, then every inch of the room. I didn't bother questioning him about his procedure as I was sure he would launch into some prolonged speech of how this and that would be vital to the final outcome.

Without warning, Lestrade marched back into the chamber unannounced, his men and Ms. Lawson in tow. "I have her here, Holmes. She was being uncooperative downstairs so I figured I'd bring her up here. Maybe the sight of her two victims will prompt her to speak."

Lestrade then turned back towards Ms. Lawson, who looked on the verge of fainting. "You are aware that you will be imprisoned for life for the murders of the Ritters? Possibly even the death penalty?"

"I swear I didn't do it, Sir!" Was all she could call out before her throat constricted and she was reduced to tears.

"And that denying an official investigator has its own consequences."

"Stop harassing the poor woman, Lestrade," Holmes crossed his arms defiantly over his chest.

"I… what are you talking about?" Lestrade raised one eyebrow questioningly at Holmes. Ms. Lawson's hands were secured behind her back by one of the officers, and at the sound of Holmes' voice, twitched sporadically. The officer immediately twisted her arms up around her head. A small bubble of pain broke from her lips before more strangled sobs.

"If you had examined the scene more carefully, and used calculations, you would know that Ms. Lawson cannot possibly be our murderer. Therefore, I'm requesting that you leave her alone." I couldn't help but smirk as Holmes uttered his statements.

"Tell me everything," Lestrade demanded. He motioned to the guard with an abstract wave of his hand, and Ms. Lawson was released. She staggered forward and Holmes, anticipating her misstep, helped her right herself. Her face turned a red that I have never seen on a human before.

After he related the events, placing emphasis on how vital each miniscule detail was, Holmes, Lestrade, Ms. Lawson, and I walked back to the parlor.

"Ms. Lawson, I am beginning to piece together this web. However, I need the whole truth from you," Holmes sighed and leaned back into the couch next to Ms. Lawson, long legs crossed in front of him.

"What? I told you everything I know," she began, but cut off with a glance from Holmes. "I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't."

"I'm not accusing you for euthanasia, or assisting homicide, but I do know that your story doesn't exactly add up," he smiled reassuringly. "Any information that you may be able to offer us is critical to the investigation."

"But this is so personal," she mumbled weakly, eyes down in her lap.

"I know it may be difficult for you to disclose this information. I promise that not a word of it shall be uttered out of this very room," Holmes lifted his right hand solemnly in a pledge to her. Ms. Lawson's eyes traced his movements warily before shrugging.

"So, what really happened?" Lestrade questioned.

"Shh, that's not the way to approach this sensitive topic," I whispered. Although I had tried to remain as hushed as possible, my voice carried across the room.

"It would help if you two _gentlemen_ would stop discussing Ms. Lawson like some sort of specimen. I would hardly grant you two an ounce of respect if I was in her position," Holmes glared in our general direction before turning his head back towards Ms. Lawson and fixing her with a hawk-like stare. Even though the full force of it wasn't aimed at me, I couldn't help but squirm in my seat. Apparently the same effect was befalling the lady.

"Please, don't make me," she pleaded.

"Ms. Lawson…"

"Jean. Please, my name is Jean. I don't think Ms. Lawson can answer you, but Jean may be able to," Ms. Lawson's eyes sparkled with tears. One of her unsteady hands reached to pat a cheek nervously, but Holmes took it in one of his and folded the other over it.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the statement and actions, and instead contented myself with quirking an eyebrow. I heard Lestrade clear his throat uneasily beside me but chose to ignore the pointed glance I was receiving.

"Jean, if you would like to help catch the persons who harmed the Ritters, we really need you to be brave and tell us everything you know," Holmes prompted, his hands patting hers.

"I guess I should start at the beginning then, shouldn't I?"

"I find that the beginning is usually a prime place to start, yes," Holmes nodded.

"And you swear that none of what I say next will be related to anyone other than the persons present?" She glanced uneasily around the room, before letting her gaze wander back to Holmes.

"I swear I shall never bring up the topics we soon discuss. As for these two, well," Holmes smirked. "You should ask them,"

"Oh no, I wouldn't ever think of such a thing!" I declared, while Lestrade snorted and nodded hastily.

"Well then, I suppose I shall get on with it, then," Ms. Lawson wet her lips with her tongue, took a few steadying breaths, and opened her mouth to speak.

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I've been wrestling with this chapter for quite some time, and after re-writing it more times than I can count, I've finally gotten out something that doesn't make me cringe excessively whenever I read it. The next few chapters should be out in a relatively shorter period of time (much to the disappointment of my AWESOME beta, ThePersonOverThere). Thank you for all of the amazing reviews!**

The entrance way to the main level of the house jutted to the right, before broadly opening up into a grand foyer. Exotic colors of daytime were muted and washed out by the slate-black sky. Small islands of moonlight pooled on the hard floors through decorated glass panes.

Jean examined the chandelier glittering above her head with a certain amount of piety. Each sparkling crystal threw specks of light onto the walls, representing the amount of wealth that only a few souls were graced with. The side door that lead down to the basement level she had emerged from was left cracked open. She stood in awe, her heart a sparrow's wings, pattering softly against her breast.

The fire was barely lit, plunging everything across from it into a deep reddish hue. With bated breath, Jean crept over to the plush sofa. She stretched luxuriously and settled her body into the cushions. The lumpy couch in her living room could have hardly compared to this. She snuggled her head into the pillow and exhaled slowly, her mouth forming an O.

Moments later, it seemed, a hot mouth was being gently pressed just above her brows.

"Mhmm," she mumbled, her eyes remaining shut.

"Did I wake you?" A deep voice asked, a note of concern dotting his accented syllables.

"No, I was awake the whole time."

"I'm sure you were," The man chuckled, and scooped up Jean's head in his hands. The pressure on the cushions on either side of her, doubled with the tantalizing lips tracing the creases in her forehead, forced Jean's weary lids open to gaze upon the slightly stubbly neck of Arthur Ritter.

"You're surprised to see me?" Arthur asked once he had freed his mouth from her skin, arching a slightly bushy eyebrow at her.

"What?" Jean was far more captivated by how his knees straddled her hips and how he sat back onto the heels of his feet.

"I usually remember your face with minimal wrinkles. Either you've aged thirty years since I've last seen you," he paused for a moment, "or I caught you unawares."

"I may have nodded off," She muffled his note of victory by capturing his mouth with hers.

He pulled back for a moment to utter, "I was sure of it," before biting softly on her obliging lips. The fact that it was nearly two in the morning hardly hindered the couple as they curiously explored each other's mouths. The stillness was only broken with the occasional gasps as they unglued themselves for the primitive gasp of air needed to sustain a conscious oxygen level.

"Arthur," Jean drawled in a momentary lapse, "my lips hurt."

"I'm sorry. Maybe I can take your mind off them."

"I don't--oh!" She ejaculated in an unladylike manner as she felt a cool trail trace her jaw line. His tongue circled the tender skin underneath her ear and nipped playfully at her earlobe.

"Shh, Maria's a light sleeper," he warned softly.

"What?"

"You really must have slept for quite some time. All you can answer is 'what'. Oh," he grinned mischievously, "just those sounds of longing rippling from your lips."

Jean shifted her body so that he was lying on top of her. "Oh, sorry," he mumbled, attempting to support some of his weight on his hands, but she shook her head before taking either hand in hers and placing them on her ribcage.

"Perhaps the sounds you just made were equivalent to mine?" she jousted in another pause.

"And here I was, thinking you were such a lady," he snorted, "But kill me, Lord, or this woman will kill me first."

Jean pressed her mouth harshly against his. Where their kisses before had been tender and slightly playful, this one was urgent and demanding. Her fingers twined through his hair roughly, forcing his head closer to hers. His hands roved among her body, sometimes breaching gentlemanly, until Jean pulled away.

"What is it?" He asked breathlessly.

"You're holding back," she whispered, drawing her finger across his cheek, and then replacing it with her mouth. She trailed her kisses to his neck, and then ventured down to the top buttons of his shirt. She placed several more kisses on his collarbone before nuzzling her nose into the strands of hair that were visible.

"God damnit, you have no idea how much I want to… If you would cease in your attempts to turn my brain to jam, I might be able to answer you fully," he exclaimed as her hands imitated her lips.

"Why not tonight?" She cooed, rumpling his collar thoughtfully.

"I don't want to go too fast. I've found that it's better to go slowly, and build up," he muttered, lifting his neck so that he could have a clear view of her face. Surprisingly, the talk of his unfaithfulness (on numerous accounts, it seemed) did not faze Jean in the slightest. She nodded despondently and laid her cheek into the pillow.

"Love, don't be disappointed. Soon, I promise," he crooned, taking a piece of her hair between his thumb and forefinger and twirling it.

"I just… don't understand. It's been long enough. Either you're willing to or not, and I'm starting to second-guess myself. Maybe…" she halted, gazing off at the ceiling.

"I swear, it's nothing like that," he promised softly.

"Then what is hindering us?"

"I feel like, like a bastard, stealing your virtues," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

Jean brought her legs up and wrapped them around his waist. She felt his breathing spike in her ear; much like her heartbeat that had begun to race. "You can have anything you want from me," she whispered softly, kissing his nose.

A growl built in his throat, and for a moment he just lay on top of her. Then, as if something had exploded in side of him, he wrapped his arms possessively around her shoulders and started to rock their bodies. "You're wearing too many clothes."

Jean snorted and returned the compliment. They abandoned the couch for the security of the floor. The faint firelight caught on the pile of clothes on the couch, and the two bodies entwined on the wood. Although indiscreet sounds echoed from their residence, they did not carry upstairs, where the wife of the man lay in a restless slumber, tossing and turning, as if her subconscious knew of her husband's actions. And outside, a tree branch swatted against the house as a sudden wind picked up.

Holmes gazed curiously at Ms. Lawson long after she had finished her story. Her head lay, ashamed, on her shoulder. I couldn't necessarily blame her; if I had been required to share some obscene story of my infidelity, I would have most certainly turned a riper color than the finest tomatoes Mary could grow. "And now Mr. and Mrs. Ritter are dead," Ms. Lawson hiccupped.

"It would appear that way," Holmes barely opened his mouth to speak, no sympathy permeating his tone.

I glanced at Lestrade, whose face was screwed into the deepest of concentration. I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Ms. Lawson, how often a day do you use a typewriter?" Holmes questioned. I opened my mouth to question where Holmes had surmised that, but I was silenced with a nudge to my leg.

"All the time, for is my occupation," said she.

"Surely, then, you wouldn't need to be using a pen."

"Holmes, by Jove, how did you ascertain all this information? You've barely spoken to the woman!" Lestrade harrumphed angrily, "I am the professional investigator here, so it will be my job to question the suspects."

"I thought that you had requested my aid when I arrived here," Holmes answered evenly, "I did not realize that that didn't encompass my skills of observation to recognize what you have clearly missed."

Lestrade's mouth opened and shut several times, before deciding that there was nothing worthwhile to reply to the statement. He leaned heavily back down into his seat. "Very well, continue."

"Ms. Lawson," Holmes prompted.

"Arthur found it more romantic to write manually to one another," she muttered.

"I see, that would make it more personal, wouldn't it?" Holmes nodded in understanding. "Might you still have a copy of one of his letters?"

"Yes, I can fetch it now." She arrived back only a minute or two later with a thick piece of parchment in her hand. A broken seal on the back indicated the Ritter's crest.

"Thank you. I shall return this to you promptly," Holmes smiled and slipped the letter inside his coat, seemingly oblivious to the protests of Lestrade, "And Watson and I shall call on you when we have unraveled the mystery life has placed for us to solve. That shall be all."

"Um, Mr. Holmes," she inquired softly, "I'm very shaken by the Ritters' death."

"Understandable, yes."

"And this house is very lonely. People have started to avoid me when they see me on the street for fear that I am the Ritters' murderer and I shall come after them in the night. I am to attend a gathering on Friday, though I assume I shall be shunned by the public."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Would you, _ehem_, care to join me?" She glanced at her lap, her cheeks flushed.

"I would be honored, Ms. Lawson. At what time and sort of wear shall be required?" Holmes surprised me by smiling warmly at the woman.

"What?" I couldn't help the outburst.

"Holmes," Lestrade cautioned, "I would-"

"Thank you for your input, gentlemen, but it is my choice to make."

"Fairly fancy dress, it begins at nine over near Grand Central Station." She glanced, red-faced, at Lestrade and I with our fairly similar expressions.

"Then Watson and I shall be here at precisely eight thirty, if you do not mind."

"Very well, thank you."

On the cab ride back, I gaped at Holmes for the better part of a minute before he recognized my distress.

"Spit it out, Doctor, what's on your mind?"

"Why?" I sputtered, debating whether to be indignant that Holmes had booked my Friday evening without my consent, or curious to his motives.

"I haven't seen Mary in quite some time, and I figured the party may lead to more answers," Holmes replied elusively, and took to staring out the window. I sensed he was beginning to fall into one of his stupors, and that it wouldn't be wise to disturb him. We spent the rest of the ride back to Baker Street in silence.

"Friday, Holmes," I said as parting. He tipped his hat at me and slouched towards 221B's entrance. Once I was alone, I felt my shoulders sag with a considerable weight. How to tell Mary…


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Eek, so it's been longer than I thought! In fact, if I'm not mistaken, exactly a month. Well, go ahead and shoot me.**

**I'll have much more time to write once school is out, but until then, eh. I'll just try to survive all my finals. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. Your reviews are what keep me going. And, as always, thank you to my AMAZING beta, ThePersonOverThere!**

If the smells of champagne and choice liquors didn't intoxicate my senses to the fullest, the sweet aura of talcum certainly did. Women with ostentatious jabots drifted from arm to arm of various suitors, swaying in time to the music, while those who didn't portray excessive wealth stood gregariously out of the limelight of the dance floor.

The building itself was quite an accomplishment; it was once an Old Money mansion, but had been converted into town housings. Most of the walls had been knocked down and quaint apartments had been installed. For the sake of historians, the main entranceway and most of the downstairs had been left untouched, albeit a front desk that had been placed off to the left side. The intricate moldings on the woodwork and walls themselves were discovered only after one had adjusted to the grandness. Ceilings at least six times an average man's height curved and arched in a moderately Baroque style, while the windows stretched in all their floor-to-ceiling glory along the southern walls. Several pillars supported a balcony that wrapped around the outskirts of the room. The foundation and actual construction of the house seemed impossible, and likely to crumble down at the lightest nudge, but I can swear with the utmost certainty that it would have taken an earthquake to down the majestic building.

I stood under a pillar with Mary secured tightly to my right forearm and Holmes with Ms. Lawson off to my left. We were adjacent to the orchestra, of which Holmes appeared to be listening fervently to. At my remark, he replied that it was seldom a person had the occasion to hear a Stradivarius being played, and that the opportunity should be optimized.

Mary commented something inaudible, and I turned my well-groomed face towards hers. Mary, clad in a pastel dress that accented the most appealing parts of her, could have stepped out of this world of royalty. Indeed, it seemed the finest of London had attended. I half expected members of Parliament to step into the room, and however jaded I have become accustomed to meeting well-known people (it is difficult to make an acquaintance with someone more renowned than the King of Bohemia), my pulse increased of its own accord.

"The party is hardly what I expected," I mentioned to my wife, trying to encompass the whole room with one large sweep of my hand. "As a rule, hitherto, the most extraordinary adventures have always begun with Holmes."

"He has outdone himself. I must say, I was apprehensive to attend this event, but it is quite acceptable."

"I am glad are enjoying yourselves, but I must protest. The credit shall not be placed on my shoulders, my gentleman and lady, but on Miss Jean Lawson's." Holmes announced.

Ms. Lawson, who, to my secret pleasure, was nearly as tall as Holmes, shrugged her shoulders and blushed brilliantly. Her skin fairly glowed in the new electrical lights, which were mounted every twenty feet on the walls. I figured she must have a difficult time finding garments to appease her height, and a very difficult one at that, for she was almost constantly tugging at the corners of her sleeves, and her dress tapered at a spot just above her ankles that was breaching improper.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, it was nothing, really."

"On the contrary, it must have cost a tooth and a nail for the admission."

"It was actually very little. I'm acquainted with the host and hostess. They reduced the price significantly."

Holmes nodded his head, as if confirming an answer in his mind, and grinned absently at me, after making a sound of approval.

"Who is that woman with Holmes?" I stooped so the shell of my ear was next to my wife's mouth, and let her warm breath tickle my skin as she asked again, her eyebrows raised.

"Champagne, Mary?" I guided her away from my friend and towards the refreshment tables. "She is, inevitably, a person involved with the Ritter case."

"John!" Her sharp intake of breath prompted me to wrap my arms around her stomach and pull her into me, swaying slowly with the beat.

"What?"

"How can Holmes prance around with that woman? She's not a suspect, is she?"

"No, Holmes is positive that she did not commit the murder."

"Positive. You mean with his powers of observation he can prove, beyond a doubt, that she is not dangerous in any way?" Mary laid her head on my chest, just above my heart.

"I did not say that. I just meant that she did not murder the Ritters."

"So she is dangerous?" Mary's body tensed under my embrace.

"No, I don't believe she is, either."

"But why is Holmes associating himself with her outside of work?"

I sighed. "I don't think he has stopped working, yet."

Mary twirled out of my arms and faced me, her face flushed. "Is this why you brought me here? So you could have an excuse to focus on your _hobby_?"

I felt my cheeks grow warm as faces began to turn towards us. After a while, they returned their attentions back to their prior amusements. Mary stood, with one hand on her cocked hip, the other swinging defiantly parallel to her leg.

"Of course not."

"I think you better explain yourself, John Watson."

"Mary..."

My wife had her mouth open, with a retort ready, no doubt, when a small woman approached us with champagne in one hand and a smile faker than counterfeit pounds. Burnished jewelry adorned her throat and wrists, and wrinkles stretched taut around her eyes and mouth. She couldn't have been much older than I, but appeared very elderly by the slow, unsure way she tottered towards us.

"I hope that both of you are finding the atmosphere enjoyable, this evening?"

Mary nodded uncertainly and continued to gape at the woman. I felt the awkward silence descending upon us, and shuffled my feet. Someone needed to say something.

"I do not believe we have met. My name is John Watson," I lifted my hat, "and this is my wife, Miss Mary Morstan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Watson. I am Eloise Merriwether, hostess of this party. But why aren't the two of you dancing?"

Mary and I both began speaking at the same moment.

"I am feeling rather faint at the moment--"

"We just arrived and were just about to take part in the festivities--"

Confusion clouded Miss Merriwether's features. She nodded and drifted off through the crowd. "Very well, enjoy," she departed.

The rest of the evening continued on in much the same manner. Mary and I rejoined Holmes and Ms. Lawson shortly after our encounter with the hostess, and took on the happy partygoers together. The two of them left us about half an hour later to make their debut on the dance floor, leaving me alone with Mary.

"Shall we dance?"

"What?" she asked, preoccupied, before nodding blankly. "Oh, sure."

I led her, by one of her gloved hands, onto the dance floor, and pulled her body against me. The fabric of her dress swished in response to my hand intruding the small of her back, and the other fitted into hers.

We had hardly settled into our steps before a quite lively tune struck up the orchestra, and I found myself cavorting around the floor with Mary in my arms. We were silent, except for the bursts of breath as we found ourselves gasping for oxygen. It was enjoyable for the most part, though I had to be careful to navigate safely away from the rowdier dancers. As the man, it was my job to lead the woman around the floor safely, and as a true gentleman, I can say that I succeeded.

I stood with Mary, both of us slightly out of breath, at the end of the number and applauded the orchestra and they bowed. "Well, wasn't that fun?"

"Delightful."

"Sorry to intrude, but I'm requesting one dance with your wife, Watson." Holmes appeared with a polite smile. "Mary..."

I turned to Ms. Lawson regretfully as they sauntered away, sorry that her suitor had left her, when I found the woman closer to me she previously had been. Embarrassment shot through my limbs and I stumbled backwards.

"Er, Mr. Watson, would you care to dance?" she inquired, peering around at people partnering up.

"It would be my pleasure."

Dancing with Ms. Lawson was quite difficult for me. It was very odd to lead someone a fair few inches taller than myself, but I suppose I managed it quite well, given the situation. Unlike with Mary, we struck up a conversation, for the beat was slow and languid.

"How long have you known Mr. Holmes?"

"It's been quite some time now." We swayed slowly back and forth, our only movements the shuffling of our feet.

"I see."

Silence, except for the carefully plucked notes resonating from the strings.

"Is he currently courting anyone?"

I pulled Ms. Lawson back an arm's length so I could study her features without looking up at the ceiling. "We used to room together, but I moved out when I married Mary. He wasn't seeing anyone then; I don't believe that's changed."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that Holmes had once said that he had never felt an emotion akin to love, and never planned to. Personally, Mary and I thought it would be best if he found someone he could come home to, and not rely so heavily on Mrs. Hudson for his meals and cleaning.

"I see."

An uncomfortable lump settled somewhere in my throat as silence descended upon us once again. Her bluntness surprised me; it earned her a little respect and a little mortification from me.

How could she openly pursue Holmes after just admitting to an affair with a married man? Also, it was quite inappropriate for her to be conversing so easily with what she probably considered Holmes's best friend. I certainly did not want her to be having that sort of an affair with Holmes, even though he wasn't married.

But then, it was quite refreshing for her to be so honest about her intentions and not pretend that it was something that it wasn't. I knew that she was interested in my partner, and that was that. There was no beating around the bush, none of the uncomfortable half-lies about why she was proceeding in the manner that she was.

"Um, Mr. Watson?" Ms. Lawson breathed quietly, her mouth just above my ear-level. I gazed blankly back at her for a moment before the thought struck me. The song had changed and had been replaced by a slower one.

A moment later, six feet of woman was pressed against my front. Before anything else could enter my wildly-spinning mind, the thought of how uncomfortable it must be to have my suit coat buttons pressed into your front flitted through my head.

"Oh, yes, sorry." I wrapped one of my arms around her waist and the other on her shoulder.

"Um, Mr. Watson, would you mind if we..."

Oh, heavens, no. Was she actually asking my _permission _to pursue Holmes? My stomach shriveled. I was his friend, not his father, and she most certainly was not asking for his hand in marriage. Besides, it would be the man asking the woman's father. Did that make me Ms. Lawson's father, then? But shouldn't the man be asking? Then why wasn't Holmes asking me?

"No. I mean yes." I sputtered.

I never met her eye for the rest of the dance, and she made no move to ask me to elaborate on my incoherent jumble of words, nor to catch my attention. In an effort to not dismiss her rudely, I kept my hands where they were a little past the last measure. It would be extremely rude to spin her out and leave her, alone, on the floor.

"Watson, may I talk with you for a moment?"

I glanced over to see Holmes striding towards me, his face pulled into a frown. As if I had been burned, my hands jumped from Ms. Lawson and I jerked backwards. Holmes didn't give me the opportunity to answer or regain my dignity. With one lunge, he grabbed my arm and almost pulled me off the dance floor. It slipped my mind to throw an apologetic glance back at my dance partner.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked once we were out of public ear. "And where is Mary?"

Holmes glanced around agitatedly. "Mary was feeling faint, and requested I leave her out on the terrace."

I glared at him. "Just _leave her out on the terrace_? Holmes! Do you know how improper that is? Leaving a lady, in the midst of all these suitors, ALONE ON A TERRACE?"

"Watson, for the love of--! Just listen to me, Doctor."

"What?"

"I don't like you dancing with Ms. Lawson." When I nodded for him to continue, he bit his lips obstinately.

"Why, I never knew you to be the jealous type." He cringed at my statement, and wouldn't meet my eyes.

"It's not jealousy; I can assure you of that."

"Well, then what is it?" I glanced down, in frustration, and my shoes. With no answer, I lifted my head up to study Holmes, but even then, that had no effect.

I raised my brow doubtfully, but he wasn't looking at me. Ms. Lawson, even though she was halfway across the room, seemed a step worthier than me for his attention, and I felt a jolt of annoyance in my stomach.

"Now I need to talk to _you_, Holmes." I prodded his chest with my index finger. "I know this may be new for you, and you haven't ever experienced anything like this before, so I can understand what you're going through."

"What are you talking ab-- oh, you couldn't understand, Docto--"

"No, you had your turn to talk; now you need to listen." I vented. Out of nowhere, my irritation had morphed into something more like anger, and I felt the muscles in my chest flex. I held his hawk-like glare with one of my own, and after ascertaining that he would not interrupt me, continued.

"Now, as a doctor, I've encountered many cases that relate to psychiatric conditions. Even though this isn't exactly a condition, or even something that needs to be treated, I've had patients so torn up about love that they're willing to take a bullet in the head. I'd really rather you didn't end up like that. Holmes, are you listening to me?"

Holmes's gaze had slid from my face again, and he appeared to be studying the ground, as if that held the answer to all of his life's problems. "Yes, continue."

"Well," I stuttered, hearing the harshness of my words echo around us, "that was actually it. I'm going to find Mary, now."

I started away, and Holmes made no move to stop me. "If only you knew." The words slapped me in the face, even more than the mirthless laughter that followed.

I spun on my heel and marched up to him until I could see the small beads of sweat forming under his neck and smell his cologne. He had never shown signs of possessiveness and intense infatuation with anything besides his work. But now, a vein was almost popping from his forehead, and I began to see why every criminal shook in their shoes when his name was mentioned. Although the thrill of arguing with one of the brightest minds in London surged through me, I found my mind returning, common sense too.

"Then tell me," I groaned, massaging the back of my neck.

There was a moment of hesitation before he answered. "I can't."

"Well, then don't expect any sympathy from me."

I marched away bristling. How aggravating my friend could be, and all of this over a woman, to top matters off. No doubt, he'd be wiring me on the morrow, requesting advice on the more intimate affairs with women. But no sir, I would not reply. If he could so callously push his friend away from him, a friend he had known for years, and replace him with a woman, that friend had no obligation to him.

"Mr. Watson? About before, while we were dancing?"

I felt my last reserves of patience fleeing as Ms. Lawson approached me.

"Yes?"

"Well, I didn't quite understand your reaction, and I just want to clear things up." She continued, after receiving my affirmative nod. "Well, um, you reacted rather strangely to me trying to request a break from dancing. I'm not much of a dancer, you see, and my feet were aching, at the moment. I'm sorry if that, well, caused something to escalate."

She nodded over to where Holmes was standing, looking as if, for all the world, he was enthralled by the sculpture staring back at him.

I nodded gruffly and dismissed myself from her presence.

Five minutes later found me standing next to Mary, my elbows propped on the railing, and leaning my head into the night. A few trees were dotted around the back of the mansion, and almost disguised the sights and sounds of the city. Almost.

"Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes, what about you?"

"Yes, it is rather chilly out here." She pulled the hems of her translucent cardigan closer around her. In a moment of pity, I wrapped my suit coat around her shoulders. We stood there, side by side, for another few minutes, before the telltale creak of the wooden floorboards intruded our silence.

"Watson?" Holmes's silhouette was black against the stream of light behind him.

"What is it, Holmes?" I questioned wearily.

"I have some evidence that I need to discuss with you. Back at Baker Street."

Mary stiffened beside me, and I remained silent.

"Here is the fare for Mary's hansom back to your house. I have arranged an escort for her and Ms. Lawson, who will be staying in a nearby hotel until the murder is cleared up.

He put the coins in my hand silently.

"I'll be home soon." I kissed Mary hollowly and placed the coins in her hand, before standing back. She passed to Ms. Lawson, the large shadow waiting by the door, and together, they reentered the party.

Then I turned to Holmes, and we descended the steps from the terrace, about to embark on another of the night's adventures.


End file.
